Even if You Miss (You'll Land Among the Stars)
by eternalchange
Summary: It had been a simple request. Retrieve the human immortal, one Harry Potter, from Midgard. But after a slew of failed attempts, it is up to Thor to fulfil his father's order and capture the elusive wizard.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** None of the characters/events you recognise are mine – they belong to either JKR or Marvel, or a quick Wiki search on Norse mythology.

 **Note:** Assume that everything that happens follows sometime after the events of Thor 2 (except instead of Loki getting away with faking his death, he is captured and reimprisoned) because I haven't watched Avengers: Age of Ultron. There will be hints of sexual feelings between men (pre-romantic more than anything).

* * *

Thor sighed, watching the newest batch of thwarted soldiers cower before the verbal evisceration delivered by King Odin.

Countless attempts over the last few months, made by the most elite of the King's men, and still the mission was a failure. Still the human evaded capture.

When Heimdall had informed the king of the newest immortal, who had not been so born but rather turned, his father had been fascinated. This boy had managed to keep out of Heimdall's omniscient eye and survive for over fifteen years at the constant age of seventeen without a single bite from Idunn's Golden Apples. Never in his aeons of ruling had Odin heard of such an occurrence, and he had immediately extended an invitation to Asgard.

When his invitation had been declined, he had not been amused.

It had been a simple request. Retrieve the human immortal, one Harry Potter, from Midgard. But the return of the first man, molting yellow feathers and squawking a Midgardian tune from his overlarge beak, had been the beginning of a slew of warriors sent out, each one stronger and more experienced than the one before. Even Heimdall hadn't been able assist very much, grudgingly admitting that the sorcerer was shrouded from his view as though by a veil or cloak, only appearing for irregular and unpredictable snippets that the all-seeing guardian had no control over.

One measly Midgardian magic-user, cause this much hassle? It was preposterous. And yet with every failed effort, the red tinge on his father's face had remained a little longer, and Thor worried that little incentive would be needed for the throbbing vessel at his temple to burst.

Loki, of course, thought the entire debacle was priceless, and for the first time since his imprisonment eagerly awaited his brother's visits for the accounts of the latest additions and transformations of the foiled warriors. Even Thor had to concede that the assortment of physical alterations that they returned with were creative and compelling in a grotesque sort of way, and he knew that given the chance his little brother would either collaborate with the Midgardian boy or adopt him.

Only Sif had returned unscathed, claiming that the sorcerer's sense of chivalry would not allow him to harm a lady. Thor, however, did not believe her. He knew his childhood friend rather well and was certain that had Harry Potter spoken those words, she would have been spewing vitriol and raring to prove her worth and well-deserved station among his father's men. But she had not yielded despite his weeks of pestering, only saying, "you shall see", with a small smirk playing on her lips.

Her words rang ominously in his head as his father now made his way over. A crash resounded from his left as Volstagg's many-branched, tree-shaped form toppled over yet another table. In the wake of his destructive refurbishment followed a line of his mother's most highly trained women, casting numerous and varied magics to no avail.

"Thor! My son!" Odin boomed.

Repressing another, much deeper sigh, Thor stood respectfully. "Yes, Father?"

"Look at the state of my men, Thor!" He swept his arm in a grand circle around them, encompassing the harmlessly but ingeniously incapacitated men. "What use are they if they are unable to follow the most simple of instructions! You will show them how it is done, won't you, my son? Show them the strength and dedication of the Crown Prince of Asgard!"

Yes, or bear Loki's unbridled amusement at the sight of the first Crown Prince in the history of the Æsir to frolic about with twitching ears and a score of furry tails. He gave his father a pained smile, hoping it didn't come off as a grimace.

"Of course, Father. Your wish is my command."

* * *

As water rushed out from the utilitarian showerhead of the S.H.I.E.L.D.-provided New York apartment, Thor wondered how he was going to fulfill his father's demands—and whether he truly wanted to.

Over the last few days, as part of his preparation for the task, he had spent many hours with Heimdall in an effort to learn more about this now-infamous wizard.

And what tales he was regaled with!

Stories of a babe who ruined the dreams of a murderer and blew his ashes into the wind, only to be brought up in a callous and heartless household. Sagas of a young boy who faced down killers and monsters alike … His knowledge of magical Midgardian creatures was greatly expanded – shining majestic horses that purified the heart and soul, a giant serpent that reminded him of the Loki's son Jörmungandr, a fire-breathing beast he likened to an overgrown bilgesnipe …

And finally, he learned of the selfless and courageous defeat of the most powerful sorcerer that Midgard had seen in many a year.

Needless to say, he held this young immortal in high regard, respected him both as a warrior and a person. If he, after facing so many trials and tribulations in so short a life, wanted to spend the rest of eternity pulling innocent pranks on various—and dare he say deserving—people, who was he to say otherwise?

Oh, the conundrum.

Sighing, he stepped out of the cubicle of a shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, knotting it securely.

His teammates hadn't been informed of his arrival yet, as his reason for visiting was not an Avengers issue—nonetheless, Tony had no doubt already traversed S.H.I.E.L.D.'s wall of fire and procured this information.

He also hadn't notified Jane, whose home and bed he usually shared on non-Avengers-related visits, as lately they'd been having some … problems. He knew he was bordering on ridiculous, all but placing her under lock and key whenever a serious issue arose. He also knew that it would not be long before she put her foot down; her fiercely independent nature would not allow her to be caged and protected like some fragile damsel. It was a trait that he admired greatly and loved her for, but it was, he feared, a point of contention that neither of them would be able or willing to compromise.

Her mortality was a constant presence in his mind, especially after the catastrophic events that took place involving Malekith and his Dark Elves. A paralysing terror still gripped his heart when he recalled how pale and helpless she looked under the thrall of the Aether. No, it could not—it _would_ not—carry on like this. He needed to talk to Jane soon, to put into speech what they both already knew—that the time they had together would be cherished forever but must end, for their feelings would otherwise manifest into a deep-seated resentment that they would not be able to return from.

Oddly enough, this conclusion left him with a lighter heart—as though a weight he didn't know existed was lifted from his shoulders.

Humming quietly to himself, he headed to the kitchen.

He did have to admit there were perks to living on his own, the first being the freedom to drip water on whatever surface he pleased without a nagging Darcy trailing behind him (he still hadn't figured out that woman's very specific peculiarities) or one of Tony's strange whirring metal creatures mopping up after him.

A glimpse of black hair peaking out over the top of his couch stopped him in his tracks. He thrust out his hand instinctively, feeling instantly more at ease with the handle of Mjolnir fitted snugly in his fist.

"Whoa there, tiger. I'm not about to attack, so playing with your hammer—however impressive and powerful—is quite unnecessary." The man chuckled as he stood, turning around to face him with his hands held out placatingly.

Thor was certain his expression of befuddled frustration looked exactly like it always did when Loki managed to trick him into charging at one of his illusions. This time, however, he had good reason. After all, it wasn't exactly customary for the object of one's pursuit to conveniently appear before even beginning to give chase.

Green eyes sparkled as they roved shamelessly over the exposed wet chest. "Hmm, what do we have here … You certainly are one gorgeous specimen of a god, aren't you." He circled him consideringly, disregarding the legendary weapon pointed in his direction. "The news broadcasts don't do you justice, not at all."

Thor had no problems with being admired by another man, even if it was in such a blatant fashion. After all, he himself appreciated beauty in all its forms and found himself returning the regard for the lean, almost waif-like body before him. But … surely this was the moment the human ran away, or at least continued his trend of transforming his pursuers into absurd and impossible forms?

As though he had heard his wayward thoughts, the man winked mischievously. "Oh, don't worry, we're going to have _lots_ of fun. In fact, I don't think I'm letting you go for a while yet, if at all." The wicked smirk sent a worryingly thrilling shudder down his spine.

Thor decided then and there that Harry Potter must never set foot on Asgard, for if the sorcerer ever decided to join forces with his silver-tongued brother, each and every one of the nine realms was _doomed_.

* * *

 **A/N:** So … this entire thing spawned from an incredibly vivid dream that I had – I literally woke up and immediately jotted down the main points so that I could come back to it later. Which means that I'm just narrating the memory, with a few extraneous additions to make it all fit.

Harry might seem a bit ooc (I've certainly never written him this playfully before), but since he's in his 30s here, I've decided that he has been spending the last decade-and-a-half getting in touch with the Marauder in him and learning how to let loose. On the topic of characters, we also don't see much of Odin in the movies (which is what I'm basing my knowledge of the Marvel universe on) so apologies because somehow my version of him morphed into a weird combination of the movies' Odin and the blustering Sultan (Jasmine's father) from Aladdin …

This is intended as a oneshot, but maybe I'll revisit it in the future. Please review! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: I have never been to New York, so please bear with any mistakes I may have made in that regard. Also, pretend that S.H.I.E.L.D. reformed after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier (I have no idea if that is what happened, since I still haven't watched Age of Ultron, but for the purposes of this fic, it totally did).

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

A grin fixed on his face, Thor strolled comfortably behind the prancing man in front of him. He was, after all, pursuing the wizard he had been commanded to bring to Asgard … though he doubted his father would concur with his chosen interpretation of said orders or the casual nature of his amble.

Few things startled him anymore, given his vast experience in the realm of 'interesting' over his long life and other-worldly travels. And yet, the recent days had been eye-opening, in more ways than one. For while his teammates had dragged him around the city, insisting he take in the sights and sounds (flying, he decided, was much better than enduring the maddening New York traffic), his current companion led him on a journey through a part of Midgard that he had never before seen—the wizarding world.

Harry—he learned his lesson when "Harry, son of James" merited a _cloud_ -spewing Mjolnir—had apparently spent the last handful of years in various places across North America, and now, for what seemed to be his own entertainment (certainly not out of a sense of duty) was popping him through countless magical communities across the continent.

Thor jerked back at the sudden materialisation of Harry's face in front of his own, peering up at him impishly.

"Come on, Thor! Bestir yourself! … Or whatever it is you lot say. I want to see if the goblins here still remember me."

The wicked grin definitely boded ill for the type of 'remembering' the wizard wished to provoke, especially of those irascible money-managing creatures, but he followed dutifully nonetheless.

Currently, they were walking down a colourful lane in the French quarter of New Orleans, which couldn't be more different from their last stop—a small, tranquil village with cobbled streets in Vancouver—if it tried. The dusty and dry _Rue Lafitte_ had old brick taverns next to freshly painted apothecaries, and sprawling bookstores opposite dingy little hair salons. Brightly dressed witches and wizards—and other beings, he realised, when a forked tongue flicked out of an otherwise ordinary-looking man—of all nationalities swarmed about chattering loudly in what Harry informed him was mainly a creole French, Spanish, and English. Thor was just thankful for his Allspeak, as well as amazed at how the Midgardians were able to communicate with each other despite such linguistic hurdles.

An insistent beeping pulled him out of his thoughts. Realising what it was, he quickly fumbled through his pockets and pulled out the S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued device that so offended Tony's refined sensibilities. The message on the pager simply read: Avengers Assemble – C.A.

"You've got to go," Harry stated from beside him.

Thor inclined his head in agreement. "I do."

A frown flitted across Harry's face, and Thor felt oddly regretful for having put the ill-suited expression there. "Well, I suppose _Rue Lafitte_ can wait another day. Back to New York?"

"Aye. It has been a most pleasant week, my friend, and I will be sorry to see you go—"

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere," Harry interrupted, grabbing him swiftly by the arm. "I can hardly let you whirl your hammer all the way back, now, can I?"

As the vibrant lane winked out of sight, Thor couldn't help but huff a sigh of relief at the thought of not having to test the patience of the fearsome guardians of the wizarding bank.

* * *

The tension was so thick, it could be cut with a knife. Not least because his redheaded teammate had her gun aimed at his companion's head.

Harry beamed around at them all. "Aren't you a cheerful bunch. Your smiles are positively blinding—I just can't bear to look."

"You," Tony pointed, finger wagging threateningly in Harry's face, "you are not allowed in here." He paused, cocking his head thougthfully. "Jarvis, did I drunk authorise this midget? Jesus, Pep's gonna kill me if I did."

"Hey, who're you call—"

"No, sir. Your last drunk authorisation was the man delivering the pizza last month, which Ms. Potts has since deactivated."

"Hmm, right. That's why she wouldn't let me do the … well, that's not the point. The point is, leprechaun here—who, by the way, looks barely old enough to wipe the snot off his nose—appeared out of thin air in my tower without even a blip in security. How did you get in my tower?"

Thor decided that he should defend his new acquaintance before things got out of hand. "Please lower your weapon, Lady Natasha."

Her arm remained trained steadily on Harry. Harry smiled sunnily at her. Thor sighed.

"My friends, he is with me. I have been in his company for the past week, during which time he has been showing me the delights of this wonderful continent."

"Whoa, hold up," Clint interrupted, a hand raised in disbelief, "let me get this straight. This dude here is your … tour guide? What the hell, man, couldn't you have picked someone normal? Someone who, y'know, walks through the front door?"

"I can do that!" Harry chirped. "It's just easier this way, you know. Less of a hassle. Though I'm beginning to reconsider on that one …"

At this point, Steve intervened. "Be that as it may, right now our priority is our mission. We can deal with Thor's, er, friend later."

"Cap, we can't just let him roam free in my tower—I just got it renovated! Who says he's going to sit around and wait for us to be back, anyway?"

" _He_ is right here, you know. And besides, if I really wanted to be gone, I'd be"—Harry flashed to the other side of the room—"gone."

Bruce broke the astonished—and very displeased—silence. "He's right. There's nothing we can do about him at the moment, so I suggest we follow Steve's suggestion and deal with the fluff balls before they overrun New York."

Confused, Thor started, "I do not—"

"Big pink and purple balls of fur are rolling around the city," Bruce explained, sounding faintly incredulous at the words he was uttering, "and apparently sticking their tongues into anything they can. There's been a report of one trying to lick inside a man's nose."

" _Engorgio_ -ed Pygmy Puffs are on the loose?" Harry exclaimed in dismay, indignation apparently forgotten. "What in Merlin's name were George and Ron thinking? Hold on a tic, I've got this."

With that, he turned on his heel and vanished.

Thor's teammates swung their heads back to him, and he gulped nervously. However, before they could descend on him, Clint made a strangled noise and ran to the windows.

Shortly, everyone understood why.

Giant fluffy balls of pale pink and purple were careening past, all headed to a destination they couldn't see. When no more were following, an amplified voice from outside boomed, " _Finite Incantatem._ "

"No one told me they could fly," Tony commented, raising his eyebrows at the rest of them.

"They can't—couldn't," Steve shrugged helplessly.

"Sir, Director Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. is on the line. He does not sound pleased."

Tony rolled his eyes as he reached for his phone. "Tell me something I don't know, J."

Fury's holographic face expanded into view as Tony flicked his hand. "Is someone going to tell me what _Harry Potter_ is doing in Manhattan, corralling a herd of those fur balls through Union Square?"

At the uncertain looks, he snapped, "Agent Romanoff?"

"A black-haired, green-eyed teenager of short and slim build appeared here about ten minutes ago with Thor. He evaded questions and said nothing of substance. However, he recognised the creatures Bruce described and left to deal with them," she summarised briskly.

A gusty sigh blew out of Fury and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Very well. If he deigns to return, tell him I would like to see him … at his earliest convenience," he added, looking like he had bitten into something particularly sour.

"Wait a mo … that was Harry Potter? The one with the Level 7 classified file full of scribbles that don't match up with any known language or code? I even ran it against ancient Arabic and Sanskrit scripts, and still came up with zilch. Seriously, Nick, what's up with that?"

In their irritation, Thor was beginning to see a resemblance between the director and the All-father.

"What is 'up', Stark, is that it is _classified_ ," Fury bit out, "and will be staying that way."

"Is he a threat?" Clint asked seriously.

"To my sanity," muttered Fury. At the quirk of Natasha's eyebrow, he gave her a Look. "Imagine another two Starks running around, but you have no idea where they are or what new global disaster they're concocting."

"Wasn't Potter the one behind freeing the ISIS hostages in Iraq last week?" Bruce inquired mildly.

Fury's one-eyed glare intensified. "I'm not even going to ask how you found that out … Does no one in this team know the meaning of the word _classified_?" He rubbed his face tiredly. "However, you are right, Dr. Banner. He orchestrated his capture so that the U.S. and Kurdish troops could use his microchip to pinpoint the location, and was also instrumental in rescuing his fellow captives. No doubt he has proven himself more than capable—when he wants to be."

Steve stood up, the chair falling over at the sudden force. His suspicion had cleared, leaving a determined, grim air never failed to inspire those around him. "Has S.H.I.E.L.D. always condoned the recruitment of children, _sir_?"

Fury considered him for a quiet moment, his eye unmoving. "Stand down, Captain. First of all, he is not under the jurisdiction of S.H.I.E.L.D.—though not for lack of trying. He turns up when he wishes, and lends a hand—or not—as he likes. Secondly," he continued, over Steve's protests, "he is not a child. I realise he looks like a teenager—seventeen, in fact—but he is—"

"—thirty five," Thor concluded.

He immediately regretted opening his mouth when all eyes focused on him. The gleam of speculation on Fury's face did nothing to ease his mind.

"Why _did_ you bring Potter here, Thor?"

For reasons Thor did not inspect closely, he felt compelled to defend his currently absent friend. "It was not I that brought him, but Harry that graciously transported me here. And unlike my comrades, I am wholly aware of the numerous sacrifices he has made for your world, Director. It would do to well remember that he owes you naught; that he aids you at all is cause for thanks."

"Now, now, there's no need to scare dear ol' Nickie off, Thor."

Various noises of surprise were made at Harry's sudden appearance. His green eyes were fixed on Thor's, however, and the soft warmth there triggered a strange tightening in his throat.

"Hullo, Nick!" Harry wiggled his fingers at the hologram, and Thor let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Fancy seeing you here! Works out for the best, really, since I've got some debriefing for you. The Pygmy Puffs,"—he lifted the squirming bag in his hand—"I'll be returning to my brothers, who will hopefully set some kind of anti-tampering system into the new batches before selling them again. The other thing is that I've got clearance from Kings for the Statute of Secrecy with this lot, so I'm a Level 6 now. Not that it matters," he added pensively, "since I'm the only one who can read the file anyway."

Fury's lips thinned dangerously. "Come by headquarters for a proper debrief, Potter. We need to have a _talk_." And with a growl, he flickered out.

"So," Harry clapped, spinning back around to face them, "now that Nick is properly driven barmy … Pyjamas, blankets, and hot chocolates for all—it's story time, kids!"

* * *

 **A/N:** Exams in less than a week but what do I do? Not study, surely! This much requested continuation is (ostensibly) for Halloween, even though that passed a week ago … But as my favourite Western occasion of the year, something had to be done! So belated Happy Halloween everyone, and I hope you are all gorging on cheap post-October candy/chocolates :p

The rescue of the ISIS hostages is a real event that occurred on Oct 23 (I believe) of this year. So the day that this chapter occurs is on Oct 31, 2015 (see what I did there? :D).

I almost didn't continue this story, but I had so much fun writing the last chapter that I instead decided (thanks to an idea suggested by a commenter) to add little holiday chapters when I can (but it won't be a regular thing). Anyway, please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Sooo … you this grumpy all the time?"

The subject of interrogation—though it felt more like a child poking at him incessantly with question after question—turned to face the new resident of Stark tower with a truly remarkable scowl.

"Yes," Bucky growled, eye twitching slightly.

The wizard—Harry Potter, wizard extraordinaire, and all-round pain in the ass—flashed his pearly whites at him innocently. Hah, innocent. From what he'd heard of their initial encounter, an egg carton of Tony Starks was more innocent than this guy. He thanked all the gods, Norse and otherwise—and Darcy, who'd dragged him out for a coffee run that day—that he hadn't been there for that one.

A gleam entered the wizard's eyes, and suddenly Bucky wasn't feeling so great.

"Well, that just won't do, mate." He gave a put-upon sigh. "I guess the wizarding world it is, then—that's where everyone seems to get their jollies. Nat!" he crowed delightedly, eyes lighting up as Natasha entered the room.

"Potter." Her fingers looked like they were inching closer to … wherever on her body the largest weapon was concealed. "Do not call me Nat," she grimaced in disgust. "Agent Romanoff is perfectly adequate."

"Whatever," Potter waved off—and was he suicidal? Because Natasha's hand was definitely resting on her thigh now, a finger twitching. "I'm just going to take this guy out of this tower and show him how to have some fun," Potter declared. "See ya, Tash!"

As they disappeared from the living room couch, Bucky was one hundred percent certain that he had heard a knife whistle past his ear.

* * *

Watching Potter come out of the house with two honest-to-god floor-sweeping _brooms_ , Bucky decided that the wizard definitely had a few screws loose.

"Have you ever flown?"

The very strange question did nothing to elevate his estimation of Potter.

"I don't mean on a plane or anything, but just … flown. No? Well, there's always a first time for everything!" With that, Potter swung a leg over one of the brooms, dropping the other on the grass. "Well, come on!"

Bucky stared back blankly.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Just climb on behind me. Like mounting a bike, or a horse. You've at least ridden on one of those, right?" At the non-response, he muttered something under his breath, before exclaiming exasperatedly, "For Merlin's sake, just get on!"

He would never be able to recall how, but the next moment found Bucky standing behind Potter with a leg on either side of the wooden stick, hands flopping uselessly by his side.

"Hold on tight!" The warning gave Bucky hardly a second to comply as he gripped Potter's waist before he was shooting up into the air.

It took a few seconds to find his voice again. "GET ME THE FUCK BACK DOWN!" he roared, visions of cloudy skies and icy cliffs flashing behind his tightly shut eyes.

"Mate, I'm not going to …" Potter broke off. "Alright," he said finally.

Bucky was frozen on the broom, unable to move. Distantly, he felt the air change direction around his face, and was that solid ground under his feet?

He stumbled off, tripping over the goddamned stick and falling to his knees. Eyes still firmly closed, he pressed his face to the ground and took a deep, shuddering breath. _Earth_ , he chanted in his head, _land_. Even as he twined his fingers into the grass, he was abstractedly aware that his whole body was trembling uncontrollably.

A tentative hand cupped his shoulder. "Bucky, are you alright?"

Bucky snorted weakly.

"You could've told me you had a thing about heights, you know." He heard Potter flop down next to him. "We all have our tickers, after all, our own shadows."

Finally catching his breath, he slowly sat up and opened his eyes. "And what would _you_ know about shadows?"

A dark look crossed Potter's eyes, a haunted thing he recognised from his mirror. "You'd be surprised," he said quietly, far more solemnly than he had ever seen the man.

Bucky felt oddly uncomfortable under Potter's considering gaze.

"You know," he began conversationally, "if you had met me even five years ago, you'd have thought I was an absolute nutter. Not in the way you think of me now," he chuckled humourlessly, "but like I needed my own team of shrinks to unpack all the baggage I carried on my back. I would twitch at the slightest accidental brush, curse at the quietest scrape of a heel, and bodily attack any perceived threat. Every night I woke up screaming, until I didn't sleep at all."

He leaned back on his elbows and looked up unseeing at the cloudless blue sky, unaware, deliberately or not, of Bucky's curious stare. "It must be frustrating for a team of superior warriors such as yourselves that you know nothing of substance about me. Except maybe Fury, but he can't tell you anything. And Thor," he added, tone softening a touch.

Bucky gave a passing thought to the reason for that, as Potter, eyes drifting shut, took a deep breath.

"We had our own war. Wars. Magical Britain was in a constant state of war for about, oh, fifty years, give or take a few. There was a period of about ten years of peace in between, which lasted until I was eleven. And then I was introduced to magic and wizards and one life-threatening adventure after the next. It was a rough time, for all of us. I won't go into the tedious details or we'll be here forever," he smiled grimly, "but during those years, I came across a creature. A creature that still, to this day, makes me to drop to my knees in fear and despair."

A chill travelled through Bucky at the flat tone.

"We call them dementors. Towering, hooded figures that rattle as they breathe. Just their presence causes everything to go dark, and an icy coldness permeates the air into your very skin. The worst part of it, though, is the way it sucks the happiness out of you. Literally," he added, as though able to see the disbelieving expression on Bucky's face. "They drink it all, leaving you alone with your worst memories, making you relive them. Again and _again_."

Bucky flinched as Potter's voice cracked.

"They are my greatest fear—has been from the moment I encountered one. And then," he barked a sharp laugh, and Bucky shuddered, "mere days after the war was finally over, the Ministry saw fit to put me in prison. The prison guarded and patrolled by the very same creatures. Too powerful, they said, going to be the next Dark Lord. My friend found a loophole and got me out soon enough, but let me tell you, watching your parents and godfather and friends die over and over again gets old real fast. I was a mess after that—married and divorced my ex-wife within a year, got myself banned from seeing my godson, and drunk myself into unconsciousness whenever I could."

Rubbing his arm surreptitiously, Bucky wished he had thought to wear something warmer.

Potter suddenly opened his eyes, piercing his own. "So I'm an old hand at 'shadows'. There's really no shame in admitting your fears, and certainly none in wanting to avoid them. In any case, we, the whole team, all a few therapy sessions short of a stable mind. That being said," he grinned, eyes brightening, "I'm going to teach you the joys of flying right now."

Bucky swallowed apprehensively. "No thanks, Potter. I'll keep my feet on the ground, if it's all the same to you."

At the stubborn set of the wizard's jaw, Bucky thought he might actually cry.

* * *

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Bucky looked up at those worrying words, remembering the last time he had heard them (fifty feet in the air).

Potter—Harry, now, apparently—had taken the … success (a relative term, Bucky thought) of alleviating some of his fear of heights and decided that the whole team could benefit from his … therapeutic methods. Steve was his latest project, and he was now flitting around the captain, brushing snow out of his hair and clothes.

"No, I guess not," Steve replied wryly, shaking out the remaining snow from his hair. Casting a critical eye over him, Bucky realised that he really was being truthful. Which meant that Harry's crusade was not over. God help them all.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and a smirk broke out over his face.

Tony plopped down next to him. "What's with the evil grin, Bumblebee?"

Bucky frowned, briefly thinking back to how Tony had managed to paint his metal arm yellow and black. There would be retribution, he promised himself. His smile returned as he remembered his original thought.

"Well," he said, gesturing to Steve, who was not even trying to disguise a fond smile at Harry's antics, "Harry's gone through all of us now … except Natasha."

A spark lit up in Tony's eyes, and an unholy grin unfurled on his lips. The prospect of not being the Black Widow's victim for once seemed to appeal greatly to him.

"Oh, this is gonna be _good_."

* * *

 **A/N:** I swear this was meant to be much more crack-ish … but then Bucky and feels and Harry happened. No Thor though :(

These seem to be coming out in a drabble-y one-shot-ish fashion, so I'm just going to go with it. Which means that there likely isn't going to be a reliable timeline of any sort—instead, it'll just be stories in this universe as I think of (and get amused by) them. Harry's meeting with Loki will definitely be happening at some point, but I have to think of a suitably epic and disastrous encounter, especially since everyone seems to really be looking forward to that (I am too though, hehe).

Thank you all so much for the incredible and truly unexpected and overwhelming response to this piece of ridiculousness—it's very much appreciated! You are all the reason that I started writing this chapter literally a couple of hours after I posted the latest chapter for We Have but Two Lives.

Please review, it's much loved! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: I've tried integrating the Marvel comic universe(s) with the Marvel Cinematic Universe, most of the information coming from liberal use of wiki and such sources. Just … go with it … .

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

There was very little that surprised Nick Fury.

Nicholas Joseph Fury, youngest (and second, but he may as well have been the first, since, well … that's a story for another time) to be appointed Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, oldest active human agent in the history of … ever (and that included Captain America). He knew he was something of a legend among his agents; it was not a prideful statement but a fact, one that he neither encouraged nor suppressed.

And of that legend, his unflappable nature was a fable in and of itself. Veteran of three wars, (temporarily) immortal, ex-CIA, destroyer of S.H.I.E.L.D., creator of the new and improved S.H.I.E.L.D.—his credentials spoke for themselves. He'd seen the technological age accelerate the evolution of humans from a species that used rotary dial telephones to one that, at the tips of their fingers, had the ability to translate words into over fifty languages while simultaneously engaging people on the other side of the world in full-scale battles about the colour of a dress.

Not to mention his encounters with the supernatural: mutants, aliens, wizards, and even _gods_. None of which had garnered more than a slow blink of his visible eye.

He'd dealt with them all in various shapes and forms—quite literally—but nothing, _nothing_ , had prepared him for the advent of one Harry James Potter.

* * *

He first heard whispers of the name merely weeks after accepting the post of S.H.I.E.L.D. director. He had, at the time, barely grasped the existence of wizards, and hadn't put much thought to the vast implications of a powerful Dark Lord (he would never admit the split second of paranoia that had gripped him at the thought of a real-life enactment of the recently-released Star Wars) being defeated by a year-old infant. An action he sorely regretted thirteen years later, when the same Dark Lord had been resurrected by the blood of the same kid.

(He really wasn't being paid enough for the shit that he put up with, not _nearly_ enough.)

Suddenly, America seemed poised to fall into another, this time _magical_ , war—and it would have, had the kid with the unassuming name and unremarkable intelligence not ended the Dark Lord permanently by dying himself _._ Which he understood. Because it was war, and the nature of the beast was one of blood and tears and fire and ice and exhaustion and pain … and sacrifice.

Except this kid—who by all accounts had become a hardened young man— _came back to life_.

(Did he mention a pay-raise? Make that three. Big, fat ones that would pay for the mountain of headache-relievers he would need to medicate himself for the foreseeable future.)

And so America heaved a sigh of relief, a quiet one of which most of its people remained blissfully unaware, and life went on.

* * *

Recruiting one eighteen-year-old shouldn't have required the amount of effort that Nick had put into it, but weeks turned into months and then into years as he was rebuffed by numerous officials of varying status. So when he was finally faced with the much sought-after man, he was almost surprised.

Harry Potter was not a very hard man to read. At twenty-five, he still had the body of a teenager—a phenomenon he had been assured was common among the slowly ageing witches and wizards. His clothes were shabby and faded, and entirely unexceptional. The weary slump of his shoulders and tired but alert set of his eyes spoke of years of bloodshed and strife. The twitching fingers at indiscernible sounds and barely-there flinches at light touches suggested PTSD and possible anxiety, both quite reasonable in one who had grown up in a time of war.

This was the man he had devoted so much energy into tracking down? How … disappointingly average.

His thoughts remained inside his head, however. "Mr. Potter, a pleasure to finally meet you. You are a hard man to reach, if I may say so."

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you," Potter replied. A grim slash of a smile, bloodless and brief, appeared on his lips. Suddenly, Fury realised that his eyes were green. How odd that he had not noticed before.

"I had not been aware of your attempts to contact me—we would have met much earlier if I had. The British Ministry of Magic is one that prizes its ability to control those it has a use for, and I am unfortunately one such citizen. Only recently have I managed to rid myself of their claws, Mr. Fury, and I have no intention of binding myself to another such power."

Fury frowned. Surely Potter didn't know what S.H.I.E.L.D. did, let alone what his own objective was … did he?

"Tell me, Mr. Fury," Potter said abruptly, "do you know of a Mrs. Hermione Granger-Weasley?"

Fury had to fight hard not to scowl—it was the name of another British citizen he had been trying to acquire, a woman with one of the highest IQs of her generation, despite having been homeschooled for the better part of her youth.

"Yes? Did you perchance also know that she is a very dear friend of mine?"

As the implications set in, a sense of resignation swept through him. The woman was a witch too—of course she was. And, even better, just to spite him, she was allied to Potter.

"No? Well, when I discovered that an organisation by the name of S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to get in touch with me, I went to Hermione about it. And what a happy coincidence it was that she had received a letter herself? She, of course, had already done her research and found out what the agency was."

In his triumph, Potter had something of a shark's grin, Fury noted. He had grossly underestimated this wizard yet again, and this time it didn't take thirteen years for the regret to follow. Suddenly, he was seeing Potter through a new light. His clothes weren't just worn; short of a bodysuit, they were optimal for unobstructed and quick movements. His eyes were more than alert—they were watchful, sweeping around the room regularly. The unassuming slouch belied the tense muscles bunched underneath, ready to spring at a moment's notice. The twitches and flinches, which he had thought was a sign of PTSD, instead indicated his hyperaware state and hair-trigger reflexes.

This man was not merely a veteran of a war—he was a trained warrior.

"I will not lie—the picture Hermione painted left me pretty impressed. But it did not please me, Mr. Fury. Because, like every other authority that I have worked for, you are far too utilitarian for my tastes. And I will not argue the necessity of that trait—many owe their lives to you for the ability to see the forest rather than the individual trees. But it is not something I can accept for myself." He flashed a slightly mischievous grin. "And besides, I am told I am too exceedingly stubborn to obey orders."

"You won't rethink your position, Mr. Potter? Our purpose is the same—to help the people. Together, I am certain we can achieve great results."

"I know," Potter sighed, a little nostalgically, to his mind, "but we can do great things just as well on our own, Mr. Fury. The answer remains a resounding 'no'. Now, if you'll excuse me," he smiled courteously, and vanished from the spot.

* * *

Their next encounter was at a function held by the British Queen herself, to commemorate the ninetieth anniversary of the signing of the Armistice of 11 November 1918, and to honour the lives lost in subsequent wars.

After paying his respects to the monarch and observing the niceties, he was in the process of an unobtrusive exit when he glimpsed a familiar head of messy hair.

"Mr. Potter?"

The man turned around, and yes, the well-known wizard stared back at him. "Mr. Fury."

"I didn't expect to see you here, Mr. Potter."

Potter ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. "Well, Bill—er, His Royal Highness Prince William—insisted I come, as we hadn't had the chance to meet since he began his Royal Navy and Air Force training. And Her Majesty sent an invitation as well, so I couldn't refuse."

Potter called the Queen's grandson, Prince William of Wales, 'Bill'. Deciding that it would be in the best interest of his health to explore that at a later time, he said, "Have you given a second thought to enlisting with S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Nope," Potter said, "not a one. Nick—I can call you Nick, right? You can call me Harry"—here, Fury spared a thought to wonder whether Potter's encounters with Prince William had been similarly impertinent—"Nick, it just isn't in the cards for me. Sparks would fly, and not the good kind, I'm afraid." He broke off, eyes lighting up as looked past Fury's shoulder. "Oh, there's Bill! I'll have to go and say hello. I'm not sure I look forward to crossing paths in the future, Nick, but it was good to see you."

Fury stared after him as Potter walked off, waving enthusiastically at the Prince. Who was waving back just as excitedly.

Where did he put his Advil?

* * *

"Potter—"

"No."

* * *

"I have been persuaded by my friends to sign a contract with you," Potter announced as he appeared unceremoniously in his office, deflecting the bullet shot out of Fury's gun.

Fury re-holstered his gun and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I have a secretary for a reason, Potter," he growled, "and making appointments is one of them."

Potter's eyes widened innocently. "I thought you would appreciate a hand in scouting out the nuclear facility in North Korea as soon as possible. You were looking for someone to infiltrate the base, were you not?"

May the powers that be preserve his sanity, he had a second, _magical_ , Tony Stark on his hands. Thanking all the deities for the genius billionaire's preoccupation with Bruce Banner's presence in his labs (and therefore one less thing to worry about), Fury said, "I will not ask how you came across that information, Potter. But stay _out_ of the S.H.I.E.L.D. database." When he felt he had glared the message across sufficiently, he continued, "Yes, I was. However, it would be best suited to a man of Korean descent. Which you"—Potter's features melted into those of a short, nondescript Korean man with neatly parted hair—"apparently can be."

"Lee Seung-hyun, small business owner, at your service," Potter greeted with a bow. "With a Translation Charm, I'll be able to understand, read, and speak the language as well. Served me well during a stint in South Korea." He morphed back into his messy-haired, baggy t-shirted self.

Fury nodded. "Very well, I will have a contract—"

"Oh no, Nick old pal, I won't be signing anything written by _you_. Hermione had been quite clear on that."

Fury ground his teeth together.

"What we _can_ do, however, is negotiate some terms. Shall we?" Potter tilted his head inquiringly.

With an reluctant nod, he pulled out his StarkPad. Before he could open his mouth, Potter began. "One: I am, and will never be, your agent. My contributions will be more within the realm of consultation. That is non-negotiable." At his flinty glare, Fury sighed and wrote it out. "Two," Potter continued, "I will not be following orders in any capacity beyond what the aim of the mission is to be. I've learned that it simply is not something I do well, and it would be in your best interests not to try to change that. Three," Potter ticked off on his fingers, "my final condition is that I reserve the right to accept or refuse a mission as I see fit. Obvious as it may be for a consulting position, I figured it was best to have it stated clearly," he smiled sweetly.

Was this venture worth it? Three iron-clad conditions that he was very unhappy with, and Potter seemed unlikely to renege on these requirements. But even as he considered it, Fury knew that Potter's cooperation would be invaluable. Just his display of effortless transformation of his body proved it. But he would not let Potter have the last word.

"Alright," Fury agreed. "But I have stipulations of my own. First, you will at least genuinely consider each mission that you are contacted with. Second, you will provide me a means of communication that is able to reach you wherever you may be. Finally, I require a detailed account of your life as soon as possible—something I ask of everyone that works for me."

Potter furrowed his brows pensively. At length, he said, "I agree to your first two conditions, with slight changes to the wording. The third, however, is impossible. Barring my closest friends, there is not a soul who has access to the information you seek."

"And other than the addition of myself, it will remain that way," Fury replied calmly. "However, this is something that is, as you said, 'non-negotiable'."

A glower was directed back at him. "Fine," Potter said, and Fury masterfully suppressed a triumphant smile. "But in that case, this pact will be a magical one."

Potter elucidated on the Unbreakable Vow, the contract in question, and Fury realised that if he truly wanted to know what made the wizard tick—and he absolutely did—he would have to agree. As soon as he concurred verbally, Potter made a brief call. In an instant, Mrs. Hermione Granger-Weasley appeared before him (and deflected another bullet from his gun).

Lips pressed thinly together, she scrutinised him carefully, with the air of one who vetted out powerful spy organisations on a daily basis. _Here_ was a woman whose competence clearly lived up to her reputation, who wielded her dominance in a way that Potter never did.

But that was what made him dangerous, he realised. After all, had he not miscalculated the man's abilities on more than one occasion?

"This is him?" Mrs. Granger-Weasley asked finally, addressing Potter.

"Yep," he replied carelessly, popping the 'p'.

Mrs. Granger-Weasley wrinkled her nose at the sound. "Hmm," she said. "I suppose the two of you have reached an agreement?" At their nods, she added, "The Unbreakable Vow?"

"Mhm," Potter confirmed, passing her the final copy of their agreement.

She deftly made a few alterations—Fury's estimation of the woman rose ever higher—and soon they were performing the Vow. Which, with its eerie flames and the certainty that he would die if he ever went against his word, filled him with more unease than he cared to admit.

"Within the week, Potter," Fury reminded him of the final clause as Potter stood to leave.

"Yeah, yeah," Potter waved off, "I'll have a file—colour-coded, even—on your desk soon."

* * *

At the incomprehensible squiggles that filled the pages of the thick file—colour-coded, as promised—Fury felt a migraine coming on.

"POTTER!"

* * *

 **A/N:** … It wasn't meant to be this long, but oh well! I've wanted to write this since I realised that Harry had given Nick a file of his history that was, for all intents and purposes, a dud. The rest came flowing out as I pictured the myriad of ways to get Nick to develop something as close to a nervous twitch as possible. Gosh, this was fun.

I also finally got around to building a timeline for the characters' respective ages and when the main events had taken place, which mainly relies on Marvel's Cinematic Universe, but some elements from Marvel's comic universe(s) as well.

Thank you for the love you've showered on this story! 3 And please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**Note:** Although I've referenced events that actually happened, this is a piece of fiction!

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Natasha landed in a crouch, so softly that it passed unheard. Unfortunately, that didn't mean she went unseen, her usually inconspicuous black ensemble glaringly out of place in the stark white light of the laboratory.

There was a moment of stunned silence as all eyes swivelled to her.

She swore. In Russian, because she was a professional.

What should have been an empty room was instead occupied by a dozen men and women wearing white lab coats and expressions of shock. She was going to (decimate) (eviscerate) (disembowel) _obliterate_ the incompetent agent she had been paired with as soon as she dealt with the mess she'd been—literally—dropped into.

It was supposed to be an easy mission, she thought as she head-butted the nearest man. A standard infiltrate and retrieve, something she could do blindfolded and bound. _Had_ done previously, as a matter of fact, she remembered, a swift uppercut and elbow to the temple causing a blond woman to crumple to the floor. But Clint was down in San Antonio on a _solo_ assignment, the lucky ублюдок*—she rammed her knee into the next man's gut especially hard—and she was stuck with an imbecile who couldn't even evacuate the place like he was supposed to.

Maybe, she mused, pinching the pressure point of another woman's neck, she was becoming spoilt. Too dependent on the others to do their part. That was the problem with being part of a team like the Avengers—everyone was _too_ reliable, so much so that there was never a doubt in her mind that her back would be covered. The knowledge wasn't nearly as alarming as it should have been.

In less time than it took squeeze into her bodysuit in the morning (something she'd complain less about if the zipper didn't pinch her skin multiple times as she did it up), the scientists were littered on the floor around her, unconscious.

A loud, blaring siren sounded throughout the building. Someone somewhere had still managed to sound the alarm. Cursing again, she started methodically rooting through the numerous test-tubes and other glass containers lining the counters of the lab. She knew what she was looking for: a sample of the vaccine to the Zika virus that was currently being developed and undergoing trials.

It had become something of a race around the world for the creation of counteragents, preventatives, and other medications for the feared virus. What was different about the GlaxoSmithKline facility, however, was its penchant for experimentation with dangerous and illegal substances in their vaccines. After the company had taken a hit with their fraud case in 2012, S.H.I.E.L.D. had kept close tabs on them, and were recently alerted to the development of a potentially unsafe prototype that would soon begin human trials.

Natasha was not pleased. Her partner had been handpicked for the mission for his background in pharmaceutical medicine, and was supposed to be _here_ to identify the required vaccine. She grimaced in disgust. Clearly that hadn't worked out as planned, and now she had to clean up after him.

Petrovna** preserve her from idiots.

She had a superficial idea of what was to be collected, but if she returned with the incorrect one—a fate that was looking more and more likely in the face of the numerous flasks and test tubes laid out before her—it would be months before another attempt could be set up, and the first clinical trials would already be underway.

A rustle of clothing sounded behind her. In one fluid motion, she turned on her heel, dropped to the floor, and kicked the legs out from under the man standing over her. The poised syringe—Natasha would bet her best set of knives it wasn't a kiddie flu shot—fell from his outstretched hand as he fell, and Natasha quickly knocked him out.

Thundering footsteps were drawing nearer—great, more flunkies. There was nothing for it, she'd have to shelve the mission for later. Getting out, preferably in one piece, was her objective now. And as she didn't have Clint's handy Tarzan rope arrows, her way in wouldn't be her exit. The door, then. Sighing, she sprinted out the room, automatically making the necessary turns according to her mental blueprint of the building. She had been staking out this facility for weeks now, and knew the exact location of one of the least used exits.

The footsteps (military, by the sounds of the shoes) were drawing too close.

Additionally, people were jumping out at her from doors on either side of the corridor, forcing her to stop and fight periodically. Hopefully none of these fuckers were equipped with lethal syringes, she thought, as she ducked under a pair of grasping arms.

The further she got, the more people she had to fight through and the more bodies fell to the side. The numbers were not receding, and she was slowly accepting that she may have to endure captivity for a while.

She whirled around, flinging her fist at her next victim who, surprisingly, dodged. In a flash of messy black hair.

"Hey, Red, you alright there?"

"Potter," she snarled, her vision going hazy with rage even as the man took up his position at her back, "Do. Not. Call. Me. Red."

Nothing more was said for the next few minutes as they fought back to back, but the litany of _RedRedRed_ played a blood-curling chant in the back of her head. _Red_ , her mind taunted, as a man collapsed from a swipe of her knife with a spurt of blood. _Red_ , the voice whispered as a scientist screamed, terror in her eyes. _Red_ , the sigh caressed her as a woman's lab coat bloomed scarlet across her chest.

 _RedRedRedRedRedRe–_

"–tasha? Agent Romanoff? It's over."

Shuddering, she blinked her eyes back into focus, realising that she had almost swiped at the empty air in front of her. Potter was staring strangely, too close for comfort. She glared back at him, spine straight and locked, before turning on her heel and walking forward. After a pause, light footsteps followed.

A finger crunched under her boot. Her back stiffened further. A nose cracked under her next, more forceful step. A wrist twisted. An ankle rolled. A palm bled.

"Natasha. Stop."

She kept walking.

"We're leaving now," Potter said, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they disappeared.

* * *

The sun was setting, casting a fiery glow on the slopes and valleys of the Grand Canyon. Natasha shivered. _Red_ , her mind whispered again.

"I still hate being called 'boy'," Potter said suddenly.

Natasha's lip curled. "Spare me the platitudes, Potter. I really couldn't care less–"

" 'Freak' is a close second," Potter continued, ignoring her interruption. "They were the names my only remaining relatives called me for as long as I can remember. Every time I hear someone yelling 'boy', I instinctively look around for my great big Uncle Vernon lumbering after me."

Barely refraining from rolling her eyes, Natasha said, "Potter–"

"I look for my cupboard, where at least I'll be safe from his swinging fists,"—Natasha froze—"Aunt Petunia's frying pan, or Aunt Marge's mutt. It was almost a blessing when I'd be sent to my cupboard for a few days because it meant a small respite from my relatives. Sure, I wouldn't get any food, but hunger I could handle. Hunger was miles better than aching ribs and a broken nose and worrying that I'd be punished for bleeding on the carpet. And they knew my 'freakish nature' would heal everything soon enough, so my injuries never worried them."

Were someone to describe Natasha at that moment, they would have likened her to an avenging angel. Her body was held taut with tension and fury, knuckles white against her skin. The last fiery rays of the sun caught her own red hair, setting it ablaze in a flaming halo.

The smouldering image was lost on the man beside her, whose eyes were fixed on the far depths of the canyon spread before him. "It got better, of course, once I started attending the 'freak school' – at least with Uncle Vernon, who was terrified that someone was watching us all the time. My dear cousin Dudley, however, was growing ever larger and took it upon himself to dole out what his father could not, with his gang of thugs to help. No one would think anything of a bit of roughhousing between cousins, even if it ended in a bleeding eye or a broken arm – boys would be boys, after all."

He turned to Natasha. "It has been almost two decades since I've seen hide or hair of any of my relatives, thank Merlin for small mercies. But words, as you know, can hurt far worse than any fist ever could, and all we can do is accept that those words do not define who we are. Even if it means forgiving those who hurt us – which I admit is easier when you haven't see them for nigh on twenty years. However, it is far more important to forgive ourselves," he added softly.

"Besides," he said lightly, "whatever association you have with the word, there is also much beauty in red! This canyon, for example: one of the most beautiful gifts of nature. The enticing red of an apple, the bold red of a rose. The captivating red of the leaves in autumn. I say let's discover and luxuriate in all the red of the world tonight!"

He took hold of her elbow, a charming smile full of both mischief and understanding, and turned on his heel.

 _Red_ , she thought as the red sun sunk behind the red peaks and valleys of the canyon, a faint smile on her red lips.

* * *

Hours later, in the quiet of her bedroom, surrounded by various red fabrics and trinkets, Natasha's eyes gleamed in the dark. Vernon, Petunia, Marge, Dudley. England. Surely it won't be very difficult to track these people down.

* * *

 **A/N:** Whaaatt? A new chapter? Be still, my heart! Say it ain't so! Y'all are hallucinating, clearly. Jokes aside, I know I've been away for a helluva long time (over a year, what?!) and I seriously want to thank you all so much for the lovely comments and feedback I've continued to receive in that time. I really don't deserve you all – you guys are the best!

A little more insight into Natasha in this one (and Harry, as always). I wasn't initially going to write the 'therapy' session that Harry inflicted on her (and this turned into a session more for Harry than Natasha in the end), but there were so many requests that I decided to reconsider. And then recently I had a dream (my unconscious brain comes up with the weirdest shit I swear) that inspired me to write this out. This chapter was like pulling teeth though; Natasha's voice was so hard to pin down, and I had to keep playing around with tone and sentence structure and stuff. By the way, the only real events referenced are the Zika outbreak and the GlaxoSmithKline fraud case.

* ублюдок = bastard in Russian (… I think – please correct me if I'm wrong!)

**Petrovna – referring to Elizaveta Petrovna, the Russian empress who seized control of the country at 31 years of age in 1741. No clue if it is legitimately invoked as a swear, but she seems to be the kind of person Natasha might look up to.

Fun fact: Elizabeth Petrovna one day just stormed in to one of the elite regiments of the Imperial Russian Army in a warrior's breastplate and basically said, "Are you with me or the cheat on the throne?" and the dudes were like, damn, woman, definitely you! And they took the country without killing anyone, and she kept her promise to never execute anyone if she became Empress throughout her life. Yeah, she was pretty damn cool. (Yes, this is the sort of thing I spend my time researching … not medicine, as I should be doing)

As many have guessed, the scribbles Harry gave Nick in the last chapter was indeed parseltongue! Vous avez deviner vraiment—les gribouillages sont du parseltongue! :)

This shameless writer begs for more reviews that she does not deserve! Thank you!


End file.
